Since You’ve Gone

By Katy Reagan

2 months, 17 days, 15 hours, and 35 minutes since you’ve gone, and it has rained nearly every day. Sometimes it only sprinkles while the sun still shines. The devil’s beatin’ his wife, as they say. Sometimes the clouds move in slowly until they overcome the sun and the world goes gray, just for a little while, before the rain ends and the day returns to normal. Then sometimes it downpours. The rain becomes white noise that doesn’t cease, with thunder and strikes of lightning and a tornado watch alert on my phone. Sometimes it goes on for days, where the world is only bleak and gray and hurting and I feel its pain.

It hasn’t happened every day since you’ve gone, but it has been the majority, and it has been so much more than before you left. I believe in coincidences, but this doesn’t feel like one. At least a few days out of the week, it waits to rain until 3 pm. Only a little shower before the sun returns and the ground dries. On these days, I see you. I see your smile peeking down through the clouds. You taunt us, tease us. You know we’ll know. In Florida, it rains every day at 3 pm. It might last a while, or it might only be a minute, but you can set your watch to it, you always told us when talking about where you grew up, your first home. Now my home copies yours.

Since you’ve gone, it has rained nearly every day. It comes in waves, sometimes crashing down and taking everything with it, other times just a peek into what is held in. I see this, and I know the truth. The world mourns with us.

{Trigger Warning: mentions of drugs and death}

By Brooklynn Singleton

October 26, 1967

The bright noon sun shone in Mac’s eyes as he stomped out of the record label’s office, guitar case in one hand and loose song-lyric sheets in the other. “Damn idiots wouldn’t know good music if it knocked them in the head. I oughta take this guitar and shove it up their–” His thought was interrupted by his shoulder colliding with another man’s, causing his song lyrics to fly everywhere.

“Oh, I am so sorry.” The suited man apologized before crouching down with Mac to pick up the papers, stopping every so often to read what was on the paper.

“It’s alright, man.”

“These are really good. How long have you been writing?” Mac politely took the papers from the man’s hands.

“Uh, around five years now. I needed something to keep busy, and it was either this or football.” Mac laughed. Both of the men straightened their stances, and Mac ran a hand through his long and unruly curls. The man chuckled before motioning back to the office.

“No luck here?”

Mac shook his head. “They’re all ‘terrible and forgettable.’” Mac rolled his eyes as he remembered the unimpressed looks on the record execs’ faces. His face got hot again. “It’s like no one knows good music, you know? Good rock & roll. This is the sixth record label I’ve been to in the past two weeks alone, and it’s always the sound or the lyrics or my voice.” Mac breathed out a sigh. “Sorry for unloading all this on you.”

“No worries,” the man replied coolly. “What are you going to do now?”

“Well,” Mac checked his watch. “Pacific and Dynasty are gonna be closed for the day. I guess I’m gonna try to snag something from the diner down the street and go home.” He lied. He was actually going to dumpster dive at the diner, park his car in a semi-good neighborhood, and sleep with one eye open. But he wasn’t going to tell some random stranger his whole life story.

“What if I told you I could guarantee that Dynasty will sign you first thing tomorrow morning?” The man slightly smirked. Mac perked up.

“You have connections? That would be great. I’m Mac, Mac Jamison.” Mac extended his hand, but the man acted as though he didn’t even see it.

“Something like that. My name is Sam Walker. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’ve helped many musicians like you, and they all reach stardom. They’re all legends. I want to get you there too. I can tell you have potential. But for me to help you and devote my energy to you, there has to be a deal in place.”

“What kind of deal?” Mac asked.

“I’m very...eye for eye, so to speak.” Sam chuckled. “I want to give you a new life. Fame, money, success, you name it. In return, I’ll need a life.” Mac started to back away from Sam, putting his hands up in defense.

“You want me to kill someone? No way, abso–”

“That wouldn’t be necessary,” Sam interjected. Mac stopped in his tracks. “You wouldn’t be doing a thing. We would just need to shake on it, and it’s a done deal. Things have a way of working themselves out.” It wasn’t until now that Mac started to really take in Sam’s appearance. He donned a black suit, completely absent of creases and wrinkles. His dirty blonde hair was neatly gelled down, not a single stray in sight. He looked fairly average and in his right mind. Who was this guy? “How does Glenn Clark sound?”

Mac looked at him bewildered. “I haven’t heard that name in years. How the hell do you know who Glenn Clark is?” He bowed up to Sam now, realizing that he had a good five inches on him. He didn’t seem intimidated in the slightest.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you how I know. What difference would it make if he were gone?” Mac thought back to the last time he saw his childhood friend. It was in eleventh grade, right after the homecoming football game. Glenn had lured Mac to some alley two blocks from their high school with the promise of some grass. In hindsight, walking into an alley at night is a bad idea. But eight years of friendship put Mac’s guard down. Glenn wouldn’t hurt him, right? In his defense, they often did this after football games. Sometimes even during. It was the perfect alibi for their parents. Who would suspect that they would go get high in alleys and parking lots instead of showing school spirit and supporting their team? That was his thought right before three other guys jumped out and started beating him, taking every valuable he had on him. As Mac crawled home, he seethed over how much he wanted Glenn to hurt like he had. But that was four years ago. Mac was an adult now.

“What about his family?” Mac asked.

“What about yours?” Sam countered. “I can put you in the position to make money you can’t even fathom yet.”

“How do I know you’re not BS-ing me?”

Sam extended his hand and gave him a warm smile. “Let’s find out.”

Mac stared at the man’s calloused hand. What kind of magic mushrooms was this guy on? Mac mentally laughed, partly because of the thought of Sam being on some weird trip and partly because he was nervous. But then he thought: what if he was being serious? As much as he grew to hate Glenn, he didn’t want to give Sam permission to kill him. He didn’t want to be the reason he died. But what other options did he have? He was sleeping in his car and digging in trash cans for God’s sake. Either way, if Sam was legit, one of them had to die. And it was better Glenn than Mac. He hesitantly shook Sam’s hand, sealing the deal.

October 26, 1970

“Thank you, Los Angeles!” Mac yelled over the cheering audience, smiling ear-to-ear. The bright spotlights blinded him, but he didn’t care. He didn’t need to see to hear and feel the love from the 18,000 people in the audience. He and the rest of his band took a bow before walking off the stage. Mac was the last one to leave, cherishing every moment that the audience shouted for him. This was his first sold-out show, and despite being onstage for the past hour, he couldn’t get enough of it. Thankfully, they had a handful of other sold-out shows this tour, so this won’t be the last time he felt this sense of euphoria.

As he walked off stage, he couldn’t help but think about what got him here three years ago to the day. As promised, Dynasty signed Mac after listening to only three of his songs. They conveniently had a band that was looking for a frontman–thus The Dunes were born. That same day, Glenn Clark got into a head-on collision with a semi-truck. He died on the spot. He remembered the call to his mother to tell her about his new record deal, but he was interrupted by the news of his death. Mac meant to send flowers and respects to his family, but with getting signed and working on his first two albums, each of them making the Billboard Top 50 and going on tour...he never got around to it. He never even really had time to think about it.

“Here you go.” Aaron, the guitarist for The Dunes, handed Mac a glass of Jack and

Coke. Mac muttered a “thank you” before taking a swig of his drink. “That was crazy, huh? Thousands and thousands of people here to see us.”

“Let’s make it a habit.” Mac and Aaron shared a laugh before Tony, the drummer, approached them.

“Hey Mac, there’s someone here to see you.”

“Who is it?” He took another gulp of his drink.

“I don’t remember his name, but he’s wearing a suit. Stuck out like a sore thumb.”

Mac raised an eyebrow. “Let him in.” Tony left for a minute, and Mac continued his conversation with Aaron before Sam came in.

“Oh, hey man. Long time no see. Sam, right? Do you want a drink?”

“Yes, it’s Sam. Nice to see you again. And no thank you, I’m not in a drinking mood tonight.” He chuckled to himself.

“Suit yourself. You wanna go catch up?” Mac asked before downing the rest of his Jack and Coke, chewing on the ice cubes when he was done. Sam nodded and followed Mac to a secluded corner backstage. The rest of the band and crew were all drinking and celebrating together, paying Mac and Sam no attention.

“How are things going?” Sam asked.

“They’re going good, really good. We–you already know, don’t you?”

Sam laughed and raised his hands. “You caught me. How does 47 and 36 on the charts feel?”

“It feels great, man. We just played our first sold-out show; we’re working on our third album; we’re making really good money now. I just bought a house out here not too long ago. I never thought I’d be able to buy a house ever, let alone in Los Angeles? Blows my mind every time.”

“Congratulations, it’s well deserved.” Sam shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Thank you. I just...never mind.” Mac shook his head and looked away.

“No, what were you going to say?” Sam maintained eye contact with Mac, not looking away for a second.

“I just wish we were blowing up just a little faster. Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate what we have. I just thought we’d be doing a little better by now, is all. But I’ll take what I can get.” Mac gave him a reassuring smile.

“There are millions who would be more than happy with what you have...but you’re not them, are you? You’re not everyone else, and that’s exactly why you are where you are,” Sam smiled at Mac, a smile that Mac could attribute his faint laugh lines to. “How would you like to change that? You already got a taste, what’s a little more?”

Mac stared at Sam for a moment before checking his surroundings. “What are you offering?” he asked under his breath.

“Everything you already have, but bigger and better. And quicker.”

“Hey, Aaron! Get me another one of these?” Mac shouted as he motioned to his drink. Aaron nodded and started mixing another one.

“And in return?” Mac took the drink from Aaron’s hand before shooing him away. He downed the drink in two swift gulps.

“Barbara Jamison.”

“You want my mother?” he asked. He was only partially in disbelief.

“You haven’t seen her since she threw you out of her house the day you turned eighteen. She doubted you then, and she doubts you today.”

Mac thought for a moment. He and his mother had quite the tumultuous relationship. Mac’s parents had an abusive and unhealthy relationship up until his father walked out on them when Mac was seven years old. Unfortunately for Mac, he heavily favored his father’s looks and his mother made that his problem everyday. She either loved him and couldn’t ask for a better son, or he wasn’t worth the dirt on her shoe and she couldn’t wait to get him out of her house.

Nowadays, she only called when she wanted more money or when she wanted to complain about something Mac did “wrong.” It was like Sam could read his thoughts about his mother and worked on further coaxing him.

“Shed what was, and embrace what is and will be.” Sam extended his hand. Mac only hesitated for a second before gripping it.

October 26, 1973

“Better Angel” by The Dunes blared through Mac’s packed Hollywood Hills mansion. The band had just released their fourth album, which went gold within three months like their album before that. Mac tried to act like this party was to celebrate their album going gold, but parties like this were a regular occurrence in the Jamison household. Everyone was dancing to the music, either on their way to a buzz or already there.

Mac stumbled out of the bathroom with a belt wrapped around his arm at the elbow and two groupies behind him. The women offered to go to bed with him, and he didn’t need much convincing. He shuffled past his wall that he purposed as a shrine to The Dunes. A shelf with their awards sat at the very center of this shrine, with pictures and band mementos surrounding them. He walked past his couch where Aaron was passed out with a bottle of tequila in his hand. Next to the velvet sectional sat a memorial picture of his mother–bald from the failed chemotherapy–with a pair of red panties draped over the side. It didn’t phase him then, and it didn’t phase him now. He snatched a bottle of Jack Daniels out of some person’s (whose name he didn’t care to learn) hand. He started chugging it straight from the bottle and made a beeline for his bedroom when his shoulder bumped into something hard. He dropped the bottle on the hard floor. Whiskey and shards of glass covered the floor around him.

“Watch where the hell you’re going!” Mac looked up and locked eyes with Sam. He had ditched the blazer that accompanied his suit and the top button was undone. “Sam.”

“Nice to see you. I hope you don’t mind that I’m here. The front door was open, so I just let myself in with the others.” Sam motioned to a group doing lines of cocaine off of the wooden coffee table.

“No, it’s all good. Do you want a drink? Or a bump?” Mac sniffled and eyed the group Sam just motioned to. I’ll go see what they’re up to in a minute, he thought.

“No, thank you. Are you busy?”

“I got a minute. Let’s go out to the balcony.” Mac stumbled to his liquor cabinet, grabbed another bottle of Jack Daniels, and led Sam upstairs to the balcony. He could just barely see the Hollywood sign lit up on the hill ahead of them. Below them, men and women were skinny dipping in the pool. “Is part of our deal you coming to check on me every few years?” He downed the neck of the bottle.

“I want to make sure you’re happy with the life you chose.” Sam gazed at the Hollywood sign.

“I guess.”

“You guess? Mac, The Dunes are the number one band in the country right now, your last two albums went gold, you’re living in a mansion in Los Angeles with so many awards you can’t keep count, and your wallet doesn’t even have a dent in it. What more could you want?” Mac took three large gulps of his whiskey before answering.

“This is just the beginning, Sammy. We could go platinum or multi-platinum. Hell, I could do that with or without the other guys. I got a taste of what this life is like, like you were saying, and I’m addicted. I want to be a legend. I want to live forever.” Mac grew more and more passionate, greed dripping from each slurred word. “You still in the deal-making business?”

“You want to be a legend? That comes with a cost.” Sam laughed to himself. “I don’t care about the cost. Just get me there.” Sam held out his hand, and Mac immediately gripped it. Mac screamed in excitement from the top of the balcony. He tried to pour more whiskey down his throat but ended up drenching his black sheer button up.

October 27, 1973

Chatter filled the Liberty Diner by customers and employees alike. That with the consistent sizzle of bacon, dishes clanking together, drinks splashing into cups and music playing in the background almost made it unbearably overstimulating. The noise greeted Sam like an old friend. He was used to this kind of noise, especially on days like these. He sat at the first booth and pulled a newspaper fresh off the press. He read each word and pretended to be shocked.

“Can I get you some coffee, sugar?” The waitress’s fake enthusiasm almost made him cringe, but he suppressed it pretty well.

“Yes, please. Thank you.” He flashed her his best smile. She set a coffee mug on the table and filled the mug with steaming black coffee.

“What’cha reading?” she asked. Sam raised the newspaper to show her the headline: “MAC JAMISON OF THE DUNES DEAD AT 27 TO A HEROIN OVERDOSE”. “Oh, my God. I heard about that on the news this morning. Everywhere I turn it’s Mac Jamison this or The Dunes that. What a shame to have died so young.” Sam nodded at her and looked back down at the paper. It included a picture of Mac with The Dunes after their show at Madison Square Garden. They all looked like rockstars, but Mac was rock & roll in human form. His entire presence oozed star power. Sam smiled that same smile he did at Mac in 1967.

“You know,” the waitress continued, popping a piece of gum in her mouth, “before all this, I didn’t much care for them. But now, I don’t mind hearing their songs. They really had something. But I’ll give you a minute to look over the menu.” She sped away to the next table. Sam started taking in the conversations around him. Everyone was talking about Mac. Whether or not it was an accident, how much they were going to miss him, what would the band do now, how catchy their last album actually was, things of the sort. Sam grinned to himself before muttering the singer’s name for the last time.

“Mac Jamison lives forever now.”